


The Burden of Truth

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair talks to his mother.  Jim's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burden of Truth

## The Burden of Truth

by Daydreamer

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden>

Not mine. They belong to the legal owners and I am just borrowing them. No money changed hands.   


Part of the Leaving Series which includes:   
Waiting   
Paper Kisses   
The Box   
Are We Leaving Again, Mommy?   
The Closet   
NanaKat   
Big Boys, Bears, and Boo-Boos   
A Child's Cry   
Rage Against the Past   
A Man Can Feel Anger, A Man Can Feel Pain   
For Love of the Child   
Absence   
Babysitting   
The Rocking Chair   
Edenton   
For Love of the Man   
The Visit   
I Was Lonely and Afraid   
Denial   
The Burden of Truth   


Warning: Contains discussion of child abuse -- physical and sexual.   


This story is a sequel to: I Was Lonely and Afraid 

* * *

He was doing fine till he got to the door, and then he stopped breathing. Even without my senses, I could see he was fighting a panic attack. He froze; all color drained from his face, and he broke out in a light sheen of sweat. For a minute I thought he was going to pass out. 

"Breathe," I murmured as I pulled him to my chest. "You don't have to do this, Blair." I wanted to give him options, other ways to handle this. He'd been trapped enough in the past; I wasn't going to let him feel trapped now. "You can go over to Simon's and I can talk to her, or you can wait on the stairs and I'll send her away." 

"It's okay, Jim," he said, shaking his head. "I can handle it." He tilted his head and looked up at me, a speculative look on his face as he asked, "She, uh, _is_ still in there, right?" 

It made me smile. This whole thing really bothered him; his mother's reaction earlier had hurt him to the quick. But he was determined to talk to her, to try and make things right. I wondered if he realized what he was going to have to say. I wondered if he'd been able to look at his mom yet, and realize she wasn't going to hear anything she didn't want to know. But I couldn't tell him my thoughts now -- he didn't need that -- so I just answered his question. "Yeah, Chief, she's in there." As an afterthought, I added, "Her heart's racing, too, if that's any consolation." 

His shoulders sagged, and he dropped his head to stare at the floor. "I really love her, man," he said. 

I tightened my hold on him. "I know. Just because you're angry doesn't mean you stop loving someone." It made me smile. I thought about all the times I'd given him more than sufficient reason to be angry with me, and yet his love had still prevailed. "You've been with me long enough, you should know that by now." 

It made him laugh, at least once, then he took a deep, shuddery breath and stepped away from me. I felt a chill at the loss of his warm body pressed against me; I wasn't ready to let him face this yet. "Just a second, Blair," I said, halting his hand as he reached for the knob. 

He looked at me, question in his eyes, and I wrapped one arm around his back, took the other and gently pushed his chin up. I leaned down, first brushing my lips against his soft ones, then connecting full on. He did this thing, this thing he does that drives me mad. He sucked my bottom lip in, biting gently. I probed with my tongue, begging to slide in between his lips, our connection an insistent pressure on my mouth. He pushed his body towards me as I pulled him close. I could feel his hard strength pressing against me, as I pressed tightly against him. My hands moved slowly along his back, stroking lightly, every touch filled with my desire. 

I loved him so much. 

I was still humbled by the fact that I could _show_ him that love. 

"Thanks," he mumbled as he pulled away again, panting slightly. 

The panting made me smile; I couldn't help it. I've got enough ego that I could get a little smug over being able to make him pant with just a kiss. 

"You're getting pretty good at knowing what I need," he mumbled. 

"I know you need to do this," I said, all seriousness now. 

He leaned into me again, drawing strength, I think, then nodded once and pulled away. 

"You can do this," I murmured encouragingly as he pushed the door open. 

Naomi was waiting. She jumped up and was headed toward him, both arms outstretched, before he could even get into the loft. I know he only saw his mom, but she seemed like a predator to me. 

"Blair, sweetie ...." 

I was poised to step around him, to run a little interference, but he lifted one hand and she stopped. 

"Just slow down a minute, Naomi, and let's all sit down," he said. 

Outwardly, he looked calm, but his heart was racing, and he'd stopped breathing again. I'd never really seen a panic attack until I met Sandburg. Oh, I'd seen guys have flashbacks or just plain freak out, but nothing like what goes on with Blair. It's always his breathing. I used to wake up in the middle of the night and then realize he wasn't breathing. I'd fly down the stairs and inevitably find him in the throes of a nightmare, and, given the things he'd seen and done since he'd been with me, I wasn't surprised that he had nightmares. The not breathing was a little harder to get used to, and it still scared me. At least now, when he had bad dreams, he was in my bed, and I was right there when it happened. 

"Breathe, Sandburg," I whispered, and he took a little gasp of air. Naomi was back on the couch, and I decided I'd had enough of that, so I motioned for her to sit in the chair. She stared daggers at me for a minute, but when Blair didn't join her on the couch, she finally got up and moved. 

When the sofa was free, Blair sat down at last. He was still breathing -- a good sign -- but his heart was still racing -- a not so good sign. I sat beside him, within touching distance if he needed me. 

I've heard that saying, 'the silence stretched between them' and it was suddenly making sense to me. I wasn't going to say anything -- this was Blair's show. And he seemed content to wait on his mother. 

Finally, she pointed to the box of tissues I'd brought out, then looked at Blair and demanded, "What is that?" 

I didn't think his heart could beat any faster, but it did. He reached out and scooped the box up protectively, cradling it against his chest. "They're mine," he said, almost challenging her to contradict him. 

She looked at him curiously for a moment, and I was reminded of this old CO of mine. He'd get that exact look on his face when he was drawing up battle plans, trying to figure the best ways to attack and secure his objective. It made me sick to see that look on Sandburg's mother's face. 

"I always loved you, baby," she said. "You never lacked for kisses and cuddles." 

You delude yourself, Naomi. You have no idea how much he needs to be touched. 

Blair shook his head. "Except when you weren't there," he mumbled. 

"What did you say?" she asked sharply. 

I couldn't help myself. I swore I wasn't going to butt in, but I couldn't help myself. "He said, 'except when you weren't there.'" She gave me another baleful stare but I just gazed back calmly. I wasn't going to let her upset me. I wasn't. My jaw tightened. Yeah, right. 

She got up and roamed over to the kitchen, standing by the counter and making a production out of taking deep breaths with her eyes closed. Everything with Naomi is a production. If it can keep the attention focused on her, she's doing it. 

"Blair, you were a child," she said, opening her eyes, "and I'm sure your memory is tainted by that child's emotions." 

She gave him a smile that I imagine was supposed to be selfeffacing, but came off as shark-like to me. 

"I really wasn't gone that much, or that often." 

Sandburg tensed. "This is what you always do, Naomi," he argued. "You invalidate my feelings in order to make yourself feel better." 

She raised her hand to her mouth and gave a theatrical little gasp. "I do not!" she protested. 

Blair passed his box to me, then rose. "Yeah, Mom, you do. You always have." He paced back and forth before his mother, heart racing, but still breathing. "When we lived with Don --" 

The name made my stomach tighten and my skin crawl, and I watched my partner closely to make sure he was all right. 

"I tried to tell you what he was doing to me -- I tried over and over again. And you never _listened_ to me." 

She sniffed and tossed her head. "You were a little boy, hardly more than a baby. You'd never been disciplined in your life," she said, her eyes blazing. "How was I supposed to know he was being too harsh?" 

How about when you bathed him, Naomi? And saw the marks on his back and his little bottom and his legs? Or how about when there was blood in his clothes, or on his sheets? Or maybe, here's a concept, when your four-year-old son cried and begged you not to leave him because Don hurt him when he was bad? Any of that ring a bell, Naomi? My fist tightened on the arm of the couch and I felt fabric rip and heard the quiet crack of over-stressed wood. I was holding myself back by sheer force of will. 

"Hello? How about -- because I told you?" Blair asked his mother, and I applauded inwardly. 

"Oh, Blair," she said, still waving her hands dramatically, "if Don had swatted you on the butt, you'd have thought he was being too harsh. I told you, you'd never been disciplined like that before." 

That was it. I could _not_ stay out of this a minute longer. "What Don did to him was _not_ discipline, Naomi," I said, my voice so tight it cracked. I had to swallow to try to clear my throat as she turned on me. 

"Oh, and thank you very much, Mr. Detective Investigator," Naomi snapped. "I'm sure you're the one to blame for all this, this -- unpleasantness." 

I nearly bit my tongue, as I fought to keep from exploding. This was just so typical of Naomi. Divert blame whenever possible. I was amazed that I'd ever found anything about her attractive. 

"What happened?" she taunted me. "Did Blair have one of his nightmares, and you just couldn't leave it alone? Had to go digging into the past?" 

I heard her, but it was interesting that the only thing that sunk in from her words was the fact that Sandburg had apparently been having nightmares far longer than I'd known him. I filed that away for future discussion. I glanced over at him, but he just gestured for me to stay where I was, so I shrugged and obeyed. It wasn't easy, but this was his show. 

Naomi was talking to Blair again, red-faced and angry. "You should know by now, the past belongs in the past. It doesn't do any good to drag it out -- you can't change what's happened." She shrugged as if none of it mattered. "You just have to move on and try to forget." 

What a convenient philosophy for her. I clenched my jaw and grabbed hold of the sofa cushions, just to remind myself not to get up. 

Blair was moving to stand in front of her, defiance in his face. "I can't move on, Naomi," he said fiercely. "I'm stuck. Jim found my paper kisses --" 

She cut him off. 

"I knew it," she burbled, as if she'd proven some great point. "I knew he was responsible for this!" 

Sandburg looked at me, and I tried to smile, but it was little hard while grinding my teeth. When he turned back to his mother, he sounded exhausted, as if he had no more energy to deal with her. 

"It was going to come up, Naomi -- there was no way to avoid it," he said tiredly. "I've had nightmares ever since I moved in with Jim." 

And before that, apparently. He looked at me again, and I could see he knew what I was thinking. I forced a smile this time, a small but real one, and I knew he knew we would be discussing his sleeping disorder at a later time. 

"He, uh, he always thought they were related to the things I saw and did on the job." 

"Is what you see, what you do, so dreadful that it gives you nightmares?" Naomi asked, and I had to admit, when she wanted to be, she was good. She almost sounded concerned for a minute. 

"Sometimes ...." Blair shrugged, wrapping his arms around his chest and hugging himself. 

Naomi, that master of misdirection, had been given the opportunity to shine the spotlight on something other than her crummy parenting skills, and boy, did she run with it. 

"You see?" she asked in that 'oh, so concerned' voice. "Blair, this is not good for your karma. Just look at the pain you've already caused me." 

Now why was I not surprised that we were back to _her_ suffering? 

"Being with Jim -- this whole situation is just full of delusion and hostility." Naomi began the deep breathing thing again. 

I was going to get involved again. I couldn't help it. I rose and then bit back my words as Blair motioned frantically in my direction. 

"Naomi, there's delusion here, and there's hostility," he said quietly, "but it's not coming from me. You're the queen of delusion." 

Naomi didn't speak. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed focused totally on the breathing she was doing. 

"I was scared, Mom," Blair said, and I knew how serious this was for him. He only called his mother 'Mom' when his emotions were running high. "I was lonely and afraid. You were all the family that I had and you just kept leaving. All the time, you were leaving. You never seemed to care about what it was like for me when you were gone." 

Naomi's eyes flew open, and she pinned her son with a glare that would normally stop a truck. "I wasn't gone that much, Blair," she hissed. "You act as if you were left alone for all of your childhood." 

Blair was staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time, and he didn't like the view. "Answer me this, Naomi," he said insistently. "Tell me how many times you think you left me behind when I was growing up." His voice climbed on the last word and then went up again as he pressed her. "How many times?" 

Once again, she acted as if nothing he said was important. Her hands waved in the air as if she were dismissing his words, his feelings, his very self. I watched him pale as she gestured; I could feel the pain spike in his heart. He was going to stop breathing again -- I could tell. I moved swiftly to stand behind him. 

"Oh, Blair, sweetie, this is no good. You know you can't be so focused on the past -- it's not good for you." 

"Answer him, Naomi," I insisted. I placed my hand on his shoulder, offering him my support and filling my need for contact. He leaned into my touch, a motion imperceptible to anyone but me. 

She glared at me, then turned her back on us. "I don't know," she said petulantly. "Ten, maybe twelve times." She whipped back around, staring furiously at Blair. "It seemed to me that you were _always_ there." 

Her words hurt me -- I could only imagine how devastating they were to her son, the man who still loved her in spite of everything. All the carefully developed lies he'd told himself over the years were rapidly unraveling in the face of his mother's anger and hostility. Years of convincing himself she did love him, and she loved being with him, but she was just a 'free-spirit,' a wild child who couldn't be tamed, a seeker on a never-ending journey. It was all over in the face of her hurtful words: 'It seemed to me that you were always there.' 

He stopped breathing again, and I let my hand slide to his back, reminding him I was here, he was not alone. I rubbed lightly, saw his chest hitch as he suddenly drew in air, and felt the slight tremors that wracked his body. He head dropped, and he stared at the floor. 

"One hundred and seventeen," I said through gritted teeth. I was watching my partner, making sure _he_ was okay, and though my words were directed at the harridan that was his mother, I never took my eyes off Blair. "You left him one hundred and seventeen times." 

Naomi waved dramatically again. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, dismissing my words as if they'd never been spoken. "Of course I didn't. If that were the case, I'd have been gone more than I was there." 

Slowly, Sandburg's head came up, his eyes landing heavily on his mother's face. "That about sums it up, Mom," he said bitterly. "You not only weren't there when I was four and Don was beating me with his belt, his fist, his feet -- you weren't there when I was seven and Terry used to smack me for 'being smart.' Or when I was eleven and Vince used to knock me around for getting in the way." 

I winced. I'd suspected there was more. I'd wondered who else had hurt him and how bad it had been. I'd even known that it would have to come out, but I really wasn't sure if he was ready to deal with this now. But the door was open -- there was no going back. We were on the ride, and we wouldn't be getting off until it was over. 

Blair struggled for air again, calming slightly when I touched him, placing my left hand on his shoulder while my right one continued to rub his back. He took a deep breath, then said in a low, deadly tone, "And you weren't there when I was eight -- you fucking _lost_ me for six months when I was eight!" 

This was bad. I could feel it. Something really, really bad was coming, and I didn't want to hear it. I had to force myself to breathe, force myself to listen when all I wanted to do was shove Naomi out the door and haul Blair upstairs and love him -- love him so long and so hard that none of these memories would matter. I wanted to stay right here, where he was safe and loved and protected, and I wanted to find a way to make sure he would never be hurt again. 

And even as I ranted internally, I knew that I couldn't do that. That it was only what I wanted, not what he needed. Blair had had to sublimate his needs to others for long enough. 

I breathed again and straightened, my body poised and as alert as if I sensed an impending attack. If he was brave enough to say it, I sure as shit was gonna hear it. 

"I was passed from person to person and place to place and each time I was less wanted and more of a nuisance, and the last time, Naomi, the last place was -- _awful._ " 

Oh, God! Oh, God! I was rocking in place, just a minute movement back and forth, fighting to keep from gripping him too hard, fighting to keep from pulling him to me and wrapping him in my arms and never letting go. I'd known, I think I'd known since the Costas case, but I'd denied it. Oh, God! How had he survived? 

He was trembling beneath my touch. I ran my hands over his back and up and down his arms, but he didn't seem to feel it or even be aware that I was there. His face had gone blank, devoid of emotion, as he stepped away from me. He moved like an automaton into the kitchen, lifting the kettle and filling it in the sink. 

When he spoke again, his voice was curiously flat. "Do you remember? You left me with Rainbow or Sunlight or something like that." 

"Starlight," his mother said, her voice suddenly soft. 

Sandburg was shaking, and when I looked at Naomi, she was too. But she was shaking the way a rat shakes when it's finally been cornered, and her eyes were skittering frantically around the loft as if seeking escape. 

"And then Starlight was in that accident. So her cousin took me in. What was her name?" 

The lack of emotion in his voice was scaring me. 

"Freedom." Naomi took two steps toward the room under the stairs, then glanced back over her shoulder at me. I nailed her with a glare and she froze. 

"Yeah, Freedom." 

"I visited them when I was looking for you," she said, and I could hear the strain in her voice as she tried to pretend this was just a normal conversation. As she tried to pretend the world wasn't going to end in about two minutes. "They seemed like nice enough people, even if they were a little square." 

Blair nodded. "They pretty much ignored me, which was okay. I'd have been okay there, but then Freedom decided to be Janie again, and she got married. And you don't take a kid on the honeymoon. So she left me with her neighbor -- Beverly." 

Naomi had apparently decided not to wait for the end of the world. "I know all this, Blair," she said, her annoyance clear. "It took me over a week to track you down and then I had to drive all the way to Texas to get you." 

"Yeah," Blair said still nodding. 

It was coming. I could feel it. My skin crawled, and every instinct I had wanted to grab my guide and haul him away to someplace safe. But it was too late to keep him safe from this. 

"Beverly's husband got transferred and they took me with them. You ever wonder why that was, Mom? Didn't it seem a little weird?" 

His voice flowed on, a monotone now, as if he had somehow distanced himself from the words he was speaking. 

"I mean, I was just some strange kid -- not theirs, I didn't even belong to someone they knew. Nobody was paying them to keep me. But they sure as hell didn't want to let me go." 

The kettle overflowed into the sink, but Sandburg didn't seem to notice. I moved to the kitchen, reached around him and turned off the water, then set the kettle on the stove and turned it on. We were going to need tea before this night was over. Even if he didn't want to drink it, I was going to need to make it. I was going to need to _do_ something. I could feel it. 

"Why do you suppose that was?" he asked his mother, his voice actually sounding curious for a moment. 

She frowned at him, then said, "There's no point in bringing this up, Blair. The past is past. Nothing can be done to change it." 

"Maybe I need to talk about it. Maybe I need to get it out so that I can _process_ it. Maybe I just want my mother to _hear_ me and tell me it wasn't my fault." 

His words cut through me like a knife. That feeling of impending doom intensified, and my body went to full alert. Every muscle was taut; I was balanced on the balls of my feet, ready for attack. And still, I knew this was not an enemy I could approach. This enemy lurked in the past -- and in Blair's nightmares. All the training, all the discipline, all the raw strength in the world would not enable me to destroy the memories. 

"You remember Frank, Mom? Beverly's husband." That curious, impersonal tone was still there, as if he were discussing a mutual acquaintance from years ago. 

"I don't want to talk about this, Blair." 

Tough shit, lady. _He_ wants to talk and that's all that matters now. I was determined she would stay until he said she could leave. 

"He liked to play with me." 

I was rocking again, fighting to keep my hands from reaching for him. My mind screamed for denial. 

"That's enough. It's over, it's done. Nothing can change it." Naomi was almost frantic in her refusal to acknowledge his words. 

"I liked it at first." His voice had gotten a little dreamy, as if he were remembering something pleasant. "It was just a little roughhousing, you know -- guy stuff." His tone hardened and he looked at his mother. "Or what I imagined was guy stuff. I wouldn't really know. Most of the guys you hung around with didn't want to have anything to do with me." 

Naomi turned and headed into the room under the stairs. "I'm leaving now, Blair," she announced from behind the French doors. 

Blair ignored her and kept speaking, each word a knife to my heart. "I didn't realize how nice that was until after Frank. After Frank, I was glad when your friends ignored me." He laughed, an angry, bitter sound. "Hell, I was _glad_ when all Vince wanted to do was knock me around." 

Name, Blair. I just need a name. My senses were spiking: sound too loud, color too bright. I focused on Sandburg's heart, still racing, but familiar and begged him to give me a last name. 

Naomi was out of Blair's old room now. She had her bags in hand and a bright, fake smile on her face. "I'll call you when I'm settled somewhere." She waved that dramatic wave again and added, "We both need time to let some of this negative energy fade." 

It was like she hadn't spoken. Blair was lost in the past, the words still tumbling from his lips. 

"After a while, Frank didn't just roughhouse." 

I didn't think I could be any more tightly wound than I was, but somehow, the tension in my body ratcheted up another notch. It was coming. 

"He _touched_ me." 

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. I bit my tongue, the blood a sharp, copper taste in my mouth as I fought not to speak, not to cry out. 

He was crying now, and she was leaving again. I had a choice to make. Him or her. Any other time, I'd go to him without thinking, but he needed her to _stay_ this time. He needed her to _hear_ him. I moved. 

"I love you, sweetie," she called out, her tone still cheerful as if the world had not just come crashing down around us. She looked up to see me blocking the door, and the false cheeriness was replaced with frustrated anger. 

"Then he used to come in my room at night, Mom. He'd get in the bed with me." 

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. How many times do I have to say it to make it not real? 

"I told Beverly, Mommy, I did." 

Mommy. He called her Mommy. He's twenty-seven years old, and he called her Mommy, and she didn't move. How the hell can she not go to him? 

"I told her it hurt and I didn't like it and to please, please make him stop, and you know what she told me? You know what she said, Mom?" 

She dropped her head, avoiding my eyes, and stared at the floor. She didn't have to work so hard to avoid my eyes; they were fastened on Blair, standing alone in the kitchen with tears running down his cheeks. 

"'Better you than me, kid,' that's what she said. 'Better you than me.'" 

My fists clenched, and Naomi lifted her hand to her mouth, all the reaction Blair was going to get from his mother. She didn't turn to look at him, didn't run to hold him. She didn't speak or cry or plead to the heavens -- just pressed her hand to her mouth as if all of this 'unpleasantness' were too much for her. 

"I begged her to call you, Mommy." 

Mommy again. He's not twenty-seven -- he's eight. And, once again, his Mommy is leaving him. 

"I used to cry at night for you to come and get me. I was with them for four months -- four months! And he was always, always there. There was nowhere to go to get away. I couldn't hide." 

"I'm sorry, Blair," she whispered, and I didn't even know if he could hear her. I thought for a moment she was apologizing for it all -- for what Don did, for what _Frank_ did, for her own part in all of it. Then she said, "I'm sorry. I have to go," and I realized she was just mouthing words that had no meaning to her. She would say anything to get past me and out the door. 

Blair nodded once and I stepped aside, grabbing her arm as she moved forward. "Get a hotel and call me tomorrow, tell me where you are. _Do not_ leave Cascade." I hissed the words into her ear. 

"I'm leaving," she whispered back. "You can't make me stay." 

"If you make me, I will track you down," I said, my voice deadly. "I tracked down Don and he's dead now." Her eyes widened with fear, and I struggled to suppress the pleasure that gave me. "Do us all a favor, Naomi -- don't make me have to look for you." 

She stared into my eyes for a moment and must have seen something that convinced her of my sincerity because she nodded, and I let her go. She was out the door in a flash, not another look or word for her son who stood weeping in the kitchen. 

I flipped the locks and fairly flew across the loft, gathering him into my arms. "God, Blair, it wasn't your fault. You have to know that. It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong." 

He was crying. I could see we were in for a night of it. How long had it been since he'd cried over this? Had he ever? How long had he had to carry the burden of truth by himself? 

"I love you so much," I whispered against his hair. "You are the strongest person I know." 

I towed him gently to the couch and settled him next to me. He turned and leaned into my side, burying his face in my shirt. All I could do was murmur nonsense, soft sounds that meant nothing but which I hoped were soothing. I petted his hair and rubbed his back and dropped kisses anywhere I could reach. 

He was just shifting from tears to sniffles when the kettle let me know the water was hot. I made tea, dragging it out with a careful inspection of mugs and presentation of a wide selection of blends. I offered him sugar, honey, milk, lemon, and orange juice and then added the honey and lemon with grand elaborate gestures. He smiled at first, then actually managed a laugh that quickly turned into tears again, and I hurried to carry his tea into the living room. 

I pulled off his shoes, kicked off my own, and then sat sideways on the couch, settling him between my legs so that I could wrap as much of myself around him as possible. I held him tight, rubbing his tummy and lifting a hand to stroke his hair. 

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong." I must have said the words a thousand times. My voice grew hoarse, and I sipped from his tea, inbetween holding it up for him to drink. He didn't cry as long this time, and slowly, gradually, the tears dried up. It was good, because my voice was about shot. I had a hundred questions to ask, but I didn't think he was ready for anything else. The world had just ended; we both needed time to deal with it before I started asking questions. 

I held his tea up again, and he sipped, then said, "Frank's already dead, so you don't have to go after him." 

My shoulders sagged, partly in disappointment, partly in relief. I'd already been planning to confront Naomi and get a last name. And then, when Sandburg was a little stronger, when some time had passed, I was planning to go and visit old Frank. Now, I didn't have that option. I felt totally helpless. There was nothing I could do to make this right. 

"He died when I was fifteen." 

"How?" I asked. 

"Killed in prison." 

Well, at least he'd been in prison. I could only hope it was a painful death. 

"Naomi kept in touch with Starlight, and she mentioned it. I always thought Naomi told me so that I would know I didn't have to worry about him anymore." 

That was Sandburg -- if there were any way to ascribe a positive motive for something, he'd find it. I'd be willing to bet Naomi didn't even think about Blair's feelings when she shared her news. "Did Naomi know what he did to you?" 

"I didn't tell her, but I think she figured it out. He was in prison for molesting another kid." 

Well. That probably assured that this death hadn't been easy. There wasn't much morality in prison, but the one thing that wasn't tolerated was child abuse of any sort. 

"I'm such a fuck-up," Sandburg said, his head cradled in his hands. 

I kissed his neck and murmured, "No." 

"I should have told. I should have done something. Some other kid had to live through it because I was too scared to say anything." 

Why does he do this to himself? Heart as big as an ocean and a sense of responsibility just as large. If he could find a way, he'd save the world. "You were a kid yourself," I said as I pushed his hair behind his ear, then lightly kissed him there. "It wasn't your fault." 

"'All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.'" 

Trust my Blair to have a quote for every occasion. Wish I had something I could come back with. Instead, I just said, "Good _men._ You were a child." 

"I'm not a child now," he said, his tone pained and defeated. His head was still down. 

"No, you're not," I told him. "And Don is dead, and Frank is dead, and the world is safe from them both. There's a baby girl in North Carolina who's going to grow up with love and respect because you were brave enough to face all this shit." I took his chin, lifted his head, and made him look at me. "You're a good man, Chief," I said, willing him to believe me. "I love you." 

He turned in my arms, snuggling into my side and wrapping his arms around me. "My head hurts," he admitted in a shaky voice. 

And if he was admitting it, it must be bad. "And I bet you're tired," I added for him, accepting his nod of confirmation with a kiss. I gently pulled away from him, settling him against the back of the couch, then pointed at his cup. "You finished with that?" 

When he nodded again, I picked up the mug and took it to the kitchen. I debated making him another cup of tea, then decided he needed sleep more. Filling a glass with water, I detoured to the bathroom and wet a rag. A cold cloth over his eyes always helped when Blair got one of his really bad headaches. That and some extra-strength Tylenol. I shook out three before I headed back for the couch. 

For once, he swallowed the pills without commentary, then let me pull him to his feet. He was loose; it could easily be mistaken for relaxed, but I knew him well enough to know it was exhaustion. He had nothing left, not even the strength to hold himself upright. 

I got him up the stairs and then managed to get his clothes off without him falling over. Once he was down to his shorts, I tucked him in the bed and laid the cloth over his eyes. Holding his hand, I sat beside him and stroked his hair. 

"Stay?" he whispered softly into the darkened room. 

"Always," I promised. 

"Hold me?" 

How could I refuse? It was what I wanted, too, but I hadn't wanted to push myself on him, not in light of the evening's revelations. I stripped down fast, not bothering to put my clothes in the hamper, but settling instead for a pile by the head of the stairs. 

I climbed in the bed behind him, pulling and nudging until I had him spooned up against me. The cloth fell off his head when he rolled onto his side, so I picked it up and replaced it. "I'm sorry," I murmured against his neck. 

"For what?" he asked, and I could hear the sleepiness seeping into his voice. 

I was sorry for a thousand things. Sorry he'd been hurt so badly. Sorry I hadn't been able to prevent it. Sorry I couldn't do anything now to make it hurt less. Sorry there weren't people left that I could kill, or at least hurt very badly, though to be honest, that one was more for me than for him. I settled for saying, "Sorry she can't be what you need." 

He rolled over again, facing me this time, the cold cloth falling between us. He leaned into me and kissed my shoulder. "You're what I need." 

My Blair. Always with the words I need to hear. But ... "It's not the same," I said as I brushed his hair back from his face. His eyes were closed, and he looked beautiful to me. 

"It's enough," he whispered. 

I laid the cloth on his head again and he sighed. He was so unused to having anyone take care of him, to having anyone care _for_ him, that the slightest act evoked incredible emotion in him. And still, I knew that nothing I could do would ever replace the things his mother had failed to do. 

"It's not the same," I said again, voicing my thoughts. "Nothing can replace your mother." I swallowed hard; I'd let some of my pain over my own mother's desertion come through, and I hadn't meant to. He had his own demons to deal with tonight -- he didn't need mine as well. I could only hope he didn't realize where my words came from. 

"Naomi's not lost," he said softly. "She just had to -- leave -- for a while." 

He made a little mew of discontent, and I silently cursed his mother again. She could unsettle him here, in our home, and I resented the hell out of that. 

"She'll be back and it will all be okay." 

He spoke so positively. He loved his mother, and even the words that had been spoken tonight did not change that fact. I needed to get past my own anger. 

"She hates me," I said, not sure why I had even spoken of it. 

"She won't hate you when she comes back." That same assurance was in every word. "She knows I'm serious so she'll adjust. She really does love me -- in her own way." 

There it was again -- that need for her to love him. I guess we never outgrow that need for our parents' acceptance and affection. "Of course she loves you, Chief," I said, as reassuringly as I could. He needed to believe. 

"It'll be okay," he said again. 

"Yeah, it'll be okay." Whatever you need to believe, Chief, that's all right with me. I let my hand drift up and down his back, soothing the muscles into deeper relaxation. "Go to sleep now." 

"You'll be here?" 

He suddenly sounded unsure, afraid, and it drove another spike through my heart that she could make him insecure even here, in our bed, of all places. 

I drew him close and sprinkled little kisses over his face as I promised once again, "I'm not ever leaving, Blair." 

* * *

End The Burden of Truth by Daydreamer: daydream59@aol.com

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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